Amazing poetry by a talented writer.
Smears of acrylic on whitewashed walls –
a textured semblance of longing.
Could I travel 1000 miles to see it for myself?
Instead I sculpt a formation of features with
fingers sunk deeply into the faintest of gray clay –
a molding of predictability and ease.
Being known across borders,
yet encapsulated in secrecy,
am I prisoner or patron of this private gallery?
With hammer and chisel I strive with sweat pouring
to reveal a face I do not know.
Beyond my reach stands a being exquisite –
the shape of which my soul perceives before my eyes see.
Floor to wall and wall to ceiling –
imprisoned by a contract, concrete-clad.
When paint turns to dust, clay hardens,
and the stranger’s statue shatters –
I feel relief at last.
Step outside this studio of pretend –
behold the rush of air.
To feel your…
View original post 25 more words